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by Foxsake5



Series: Moments in Sander's life as Robbe's boyfriend [3]
Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, implied sex, part two is pending, sander is a simp for robbe, sander is lost for words, sander is overwhelmed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxsake5/pseuds/Foxsake5
Summary: Literally a little something about Sander admiring Robbe in a black silk robe.
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Series: Moments in Sander's life as Robbe's boyfriend [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101524
Comments: 22
Kudos: 108





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**Author's Note:**

> I received a prompt on tumblr about Robbe in a robe and had some fun with it, and used it to explore their relationship and Sander's persona a bit. As promised, I'm posting it here too ☺️

**Home**

  
Sander is lost for words, his eyes roaming over every delightful inch of Robbe just standing there in the hallway with his cup of coffee, being all tousled and sleep-warm and barely dressed, the black, cool silk slipping off one sun-kissed and freckled shoulder.

“Welcome home,” Robbe says, his voice soft and a little amused, as he studies Sander with a slight head-tilt.   
  
Sander hasn’t even removed his boots. He took the stairs two steps at a time and his breath was already short when he locked the door behind him and wrenched off his leather jacket - the music in his earbuds probably too loud and chaotic for the flat this early in the morning - and Robbe had padded out from the kitchen to greet him.  
  
Instantly, his gaze dropped to where the robe caresses Robbe’s bare thighs. And as if he and Robbe had collided, the air was knocked out of him.  
  
‘ _It's not the side-effects of the cocaine, I'm thinking that it must be love!_ ’ Bowie hollered on Station to Station, as the rush of adrenaline from the night stooped and settled heavy and hot somewhere low in Sander’s stomach, and his brain just...ceased to function. Became mush.  
  
His jacket had slid unnoticed off the rest of his arm, taking his phone with it, The Thin White Duke drowning in the heap.  
  
He’s not often speechless, but wow.   
  
What a treat.  
  
Mesmerised, he scans Robbe up and down to drink in the shape of him, with the neckline plunging deep over skin that he longs to kiss and cinched effortlessly at his slim middle by a belt, wrinkling the elegant robe.   
  
Gorgeous.  
  
Sander swallows. Robbe is a vision in gold, obsidian, and copper, so exquisite that he struggles to comprehend it. The rootless, delinquent, rebel rebel _enfant terrible_ truly ended up snatching the finest treasure of them all, huh? Fuck. If he keeps thinking about that, he’ll cry.  
  
The robe is one that he got Robbe more or less on a whim last Christmas, along with matching pyjamas bottoms. A rather expensive whim, but suitable for a prince, in Sander’s opinion.   
  
For he is a prince, of fairytales and legends, rescuing Sander’s broken, bleeding heart and healing it with his own, and for that he at the very least deserves to be spoiled lavishly – although Sander does get ridiculously weak at the knees for his precious skater boy, who tugs awkwardly at the frayed hems of his hoodies, worn petal-soft and smelling of cheap laundry detergent, and of asphalt and cigarettes and frites from late summer evenings having beer with his friends in the park.   
  
He is _such a boy_ then, and butterflies flutter their wings so rapidly Sander almost feels sick. Reminds him of the humble beginning, he supposes. Bruised elbows, sunburns, wild wavy locks, shy smiles. Sander crushed hard.   
  
They’ve come far, and he still crushes hard.   
  
In spring, Robbe brought the set with him when they went to Paris. The sight of him on the gigantic, baroque bed sipping champagne from the bottle and devouring chocolate-dipped strawberries, drunk on post-sex bliss, hair damp from their heated shower, had inspired a series of snapshots where he looked like a total rock star, shiny, rumpled black pouring over him like molten silver under the chandelier. Sander has added them to his portfolio, they turned out that good.  
  
Of course, there’s a fair few that solely made it to his private collection, as the flowy robe was discarded and Robbe stretched out languidly on the luxurious satin with Sander above him, watching his Bambi eyes go mischievous and sparkly through the lens, and his hand travelled lower, and lower, and lower, and the silk hid nothing.   
  
This is the first time Sander has seen him in only the robe, though. He wonders if Robbe is aware of how beautiful he is and of the devastating effect he has on Sander. Did he put it on just for show? Is he wearing anything underneath? Does he want Sander to undress him, the robe pooling at their feet, and make up for leaving him on a Saturday to catch rays of moonlight on bricks instead?  
  
The robe hits different than Sander’s oversized t-shirts that he likes to borrow. He’s adorable in them, and Sander melts completely, unable to not cuddle him silly and call him all sorts of embarrassing pet names. Now, however, he’s such a sweet, sexy thing that pride swells in Sander’s chest, and he can barely contain himself from pouncing.  
  
“Planet Earth to Mr Driesen?” Robbe, that little terror, is full of mirth over Sander, who can’t really focus on anything else than the split on the side that rides dangerously high.   
  
Sander licks his dry lips, parched. The urge to trap Robbe against the wall is overwhelming. God, he can picture it clearly, how he would trail his fingertips up his leg before hooking it over his hip and slowly grind into him, mumble dirty secrets in his ear, drive him onto his toes in pleasure and snog him until he is a pliant mess in his arms.  
  
With calloused, paint-stained hands, Sander reaches for him. The robe is delicate under his slightly rough and shaky touch. He feels Robbe’s muscles shift as he shuffles closer, and his palms glide easily around his small waist, up his spine, then down again, down to the perfect curve of him.  
  
Sander spreads his hands out and just rests them there, on his arse, on _his_ arse, actually - no one else is allowed this, and the satisfaction that thought gives him is so immense that he could fucking purr from it.  
  
The warmth from him through the thin material is feverish and tempting. Sander cradles him, so that Robbe is pressed against the zipper of his stone-washed jeans and his coarse wool jumper. He drags his gaze up from where the necklace glimmers sinfully on sharp collarbones and once it lands on Robbe’s mouth, deliciously pink and puffy, he can’t resist leaning in, magnetised.  
  
“Hi, baby,” he finally murmurs, hoarse, their lips merely brushing. Robbe shivers, since Sander carried the frost from the outside in with him, and lifts his free hand to cup Sander’s face, thumb stroking his cold cheek.  
  
“Hello, you,” Robbe says, fondness radiating off him. He curls his fingers in Sander’s hair, then brings him in to kiss him gently, gently, and their teeth clack as Robbe giggles into it, because Sander is hopeless and simply has to try slipping him his tongue.  
  
Robbe digs his thumb into Sander’s cheek to stave him off. “You taste like whiskey.”  
  
Dazed but persistent, Sander follows him to beg for another kiss. Robbe chuckles and offers a reassuring peck, and Sander pouts, wanting - needing - a lot more. He can never get enough of his Robin, and especially not when he has been without him for twelve hours straight, working hard and his bones tired, and comes home to find him like this!   
  
Like the most wonderful place Sander has ever belonged.   
  
He sighs and bows down to leave a sloppy kiss on Robbe’s dainty, exposed shoulder and then nuzzles into the smooth line of his throat, inhaling his lovely and familiar scent. “Hm, yeah, Adi and I had some when we finished the piece,” he explains. “Sorry, I know I shouldn’t.”  
  
“Sander, I didn’t mean it like that.” Robbe rubs his temple against Sander’s, affectionate. It’s a kitten attack to his resolve, which he has to admit is non-existent anyway, when it comes to Robbe. He’s whipped for him, the raging storm inside calming for no one else. “Besides, I’m a whiskey man, remember?”  
  
Sander snorts but tightens his grip. He remembers.   
  
Robbe wiggles a little in the embrace and hums, comfortable, basking in the attention. “Guess you had fun, then.”   
  
“Mhm. And you? Did you miss me?” Sander draws back to smirk at him, and tugs at his robe in an obvious hint. “Thinking of Paris?”  
  
“Always thinking of Paris.” Robbe grins.  
  
“Always thinking of Paris,” Sander repeats, not sure why, just that Robbe sounded so cute saying it.   
  
Robbe arches a brow and angles his chin up, appraising. His lashes are sooty, the shades of brown in his eyes glittering. The light spilling from the kitchen into the dim hallway casts him in a halo-like glow.  
  
Angel. His very own angel.  
  
Sander is not used to this new feeling yet, of getting to admire Robbe to his heart’s content without anyone interrupting them. It is freedom on a level he’s never previously experienced.  
  
He was so stressed before. Counting the minutes until he could be with Robbe again, then dreading the inevitable moment when they would have to part.  
  
Not to mention the constant sneaking around, keeping quiet under rustling sheets, those awkward run-ins with Robbe’s mum after particularly steamy make-out sessions, the evidence of what he had reduced her son to sucked into his neck… She is protective of Robbe and Sander doesn’t blame her; he knows that he can be extremely needy and demanding. Robbe is younger and also the kindest, purest soul, and despite Sander being on his best behaviour and worshipping the ground Robbe walks on, she wasn’t a fan of him staying over _every_ night. So, for the sake of appeasing his future mother-in-law, he didn’t. For two years. And he hated it.  
  
But since September, they have had every night.   
  
Except this one, and it’s okay, he can survive some space between them as long as it’s signed and sealed that he has unlimited access to his favourite person in the universe on a daily basis.   
  
And apparently, Robbe was a tiny bit done with him, as he nearly shoved him out the door earlier and announced that he didn’t have to hurry up and return. Down the corridor the neighbours were bustling, and Sander had whirled around to obnoxiously smooch him goodbye, and a blushing Robbe one upped him and flipped him off. Yep, done with Sander’s tomfoolery.   
  
Sander considered it a win.  
  
Living together is heaven and he could be plastered to Robbe forever and enjoy it terribly, but that doesn’t mean they don’t get on each other’s nerves occasionally, and let’s be real: Sander strives to be annoying. Because Robbe is a fucking saint and doesn’t get angry, only endearingly huffy, and as soon as Sander successfully wrestles him into a hug, or onto his lap, Robbe caves and goes all syrupy and mellow. “I love you, my little monkey,” Sander will tell him, as saccharine as he can. “You’re an idiot,” Robbe will answer back, clinging to Sander like he is his most prised possession. “But my idiot.”  
  
Ugh, they’re disgusting, and Sander shamelessly thrives on it.   
  
Still, contrary to popular belief, he is in fact capable of physically detaching himself from Robbe.  
  
He _has_ to, his therapist has hammered into him, or he’ll suffocate them both. To be fair, it is nice to do his own thing, his restless mind mercifully occupied with the fast-paced hunting for the ultimate spot to cover in bright neon colours, for instance.  
  
Sure, he would prefer having Robbe around 24/7, or to be a lone wolf out there on the streets – all or nothing – though Adi and the crew can be great company when they want to. The huge project they had embarked on tonight consumed him so much that even Robbe was erased from his consciousness. Smoke, bright flashes, sore knuckles, tall, abandoned building a canvas for untamed creativity. He was hungry for it, _living_ , and Adi saw his vision and ran with it too.   
  
The text he received at 1:21, though… His name, and a lovestruck emoji with hearts swirling around it.  
  
Frowning, he had responded with a question mark, not getting it, but Robbe went radio silent.   
  
Sander had clutched the spray can, dizzy, when suddenly, too late, he got it.  
  
Fucking hell.   
  
He can be so dumb, sometimes.   
  
“You have missed me, haven’t you?” he whispers, swaying a little getting lost in the sensation of _Robbe_ , just holding him and breathing him in and savouring the anticipation of what’s to come. He is one hundred percent certain that this is all for him.  
  
Has Robbe even slept? Did the flat feel empty without him, the bed too big?  
  
His legs go jelly at the thought of Robbe alone, desiring him enough to maybe fantasise about him, and it being so good that he had to let Sander know – in the cutest, most Robbe-ish way, and Sander is the absolute luckiest man, no doubt. He had listened to the other guys complain about their girlfriends and kept thinking, ‘ _Sorry bro, can’t relate_.’  
  
Hypnotised, he leans in and starts mouthing along Robbe’s jaw, using his hands to firmly guide him closer, so close that he is flat against Sander, their hearts in sync. The lingering fragrance of his shampoo almost makes Sander growl from the image of Robbe naked, lean, taut and glistening, and touching himself where Sander should always, always be, his lithe body trembling.  
  
“And what are you gonna do ‘bout it?” Robbe counters, insolent, less affected by Sander’s ministrations than he’d intended. It’s wicked, and Sander could explode with pride.   
  
Playfully, he bumps Robbe’s nose and manages to steal a quick kiss from him while he’s at it. “Depends,” he teases, the compulsion to basically paw at Robbe like a caveman subsiding when he has Robbe exactly where he needs him, safe and secure in his arms, hooked on his every word, blunt nails scratching Sander’s scalp absentmindedly. Tingles, _everywhere_. Sander is shrouded in adoration, and he is on cloud nine.   
  
“Yeah?” Robbe bites his bottom lip, his lids drooping. Playing the game. “On what?”  
  
“I’m curious to know what you’ve been up to while I was gone.”  
  
Robbe’s mouth lazily quirks at one corner, crooked and impish. Naturally, Sander has to kiss his dimples, and Robbe’s reply disappears in a muffled laugh.   
  
“Very, very curious.” He squeezes Robbe’s arse and for emphasis, he rolls his hips, forcing Robbe to stumble backwards.   
  
“Wait, my coffee,” Robbe laughs louder. “Jesus, Sander, you’re impossible. Just let me...”  
  
Sander gallantly wraps an arm around him and grabs his wrist to steady it for him. “Fixed it,” he says, ignoring the coffee sloshing over the porcelain onto the floor. “Now tell me. Tell me, tell me, tell me. I’m dying to know.”  
  
Robbe stares at the dripping coffee. His hair curls over his ear, where the hoop twinkles starrily at Sander. One day, he’ll buy him a diamond. “I, uh, cleaned.”  
  
“What?” Sander chuckles. “You kicked me out so you could clean?”  
  
“I didn’t kick you out, you already had plans to vandalise the city with your _crew_. Dork.” Robbe sends him a mock glare. “And one of us had to do the job. Your parents are coming over for dinner today.”  
  
“Ah, shit.” Sander winces, reality shaking him from his smitten stupor. “Sorry, I forgot. I promise I’ll cook, and get the flowers, and do the dishes, and you can hang out with Jens if you want to, I know you haven’t seen him in ages.”  
  
Robbe’s expression softens and he combs through Sander’s ruffled fringe, sorting him out a bit. “But I want to hang out with you.”   
  
Sander relaxes into a smile, endlessly charmed. He bumps Robbe’s nose again. “Okay, cutie. You can hang out with me. Be my _sous-chef_?”  
  
“Cool.” Robbe smiles back at him, the type of smile that envelopes Sander in sunshine. Then he squares his shoulders, the robe sliding further down, clears his throat and gets a little stern. “You know, you trampled in here with you boots on and spilled coffee on the floor, which, _no joke_ , I spent an hour on my hands and knees scrubbing.” He aims a meaningful look at Sander. “Think you should do something about that?”  
  
“Aw, you want a reward, is that it?” Sander waggles his eyebrows. “I have plenty ideas, as it happens. In the _bedroom_.” With one last sleazy grope and a lascivious wink, he extracts himself from Robbe and then half-spins on his heel, grinning wryly.   
  
Robbe snickers and immediately claws at his jumper to stop him.   
  
“Nooo, Sander. Be a man and tidy up your mess, or I won’t tell you what else I did. Like, when I was missing you and stuff.”   
  
There it is.  
  
He whips around and doesn’t give Robbe the chance to gloat before he strides past him towards the kitchen, on a mission to fetch the goddamn cleaning supplies real’ quick.  
  
“Sander,” he hears Robbe behind him, exasperated. “Your shoes.”   
  
Oops.   
  
“And what are you going in there for anyway? Check the bathroom.”  
  
Sander pauses in the doorway, sheepish. He peers back at Robbe. “I know that, it’s just…you’re distracting me!”  
  
Robbe’s smirk widens and he preens, a sucker for compliments. “I’m distracting?”  
  
“ _So_ distracting.” Sander falls against the doorframe, acting swoony and earning a giggle for his performance. “Fuck, I-” Shaking his head, he searches for a way to express himself other than drooling. “I really want…”  
  
“…You really want?” Robbe is walking up to him, barefoot and gentle, holding his coffee like he’s about to climb into bed next to Sander on a drowsy Sunday and share it with him.   
  
Sighing, Sander carefully takes the cup from him and sets it aside on the kitchen counter. It’s lukewarm, the coffee mostly milk and cinnamon.  
  
Blasphemous.   
  
Robbe pouts, pretending he seriously meant to finish that swill, and Sander turns into a mushy puddle and kisses his baby, and finally, _finally_ , Robbe flings both of his arms around Sander’s neck and properly buries into him with his whole glorious being, and Sander shuts his eyes, inhales him, and hugs him back as if his life depends on it.   
  
“I really want to have sex with you,” he mumbles, his hands balling into fists at the back of the robe, not caring how desperate he comes across. “You can’t look like this and not expect me to go crazy, angel.”  
  
“Then go crazy.” Robbe starts nibbling below Sander’s ear at the spot that ignites him like a spark, tongue lapping so tenderly and skilled, and Sander wobbles as the simmering lust spikes and blood surges south.   
  
“I seem to recall I was given a task.” He manages to control his gasps, but it is strained, and when Robbe bites, he moans. “Or- or has his majesty changed his mind?”  
  
“ _Tsk_. If anyone is a slave-driver around here, it’s you.” Robbe grazes his teeth over Sander’s throat. Sander hisses. “Fuck all that, to be honest. Been wanting it since you left. Wish you’d stayed. Couldn’t sleep, just waited and waited…”  
  
Sander exhales harshly and presses his nose into Robbe’s cheek to kiss it. “You should’ve said. I’d come back to you in a second.”  
  
“Don’t wanna be clingy,” Robbe grumbles. Sander chooses not to comment on how that ship has sailed. “‘S good to miss you, tho.” Pulling back, Robbe gives him a small, private smile, and it’s as if the moon has entered their tiny, shabby flat in the dead centre of Antwerp, filling the nooks and shadows with its platinum beam. Robbe lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Makes me extra, extra hot for you, you know.”   
  
The air wafts over the wetness on his skin, stinging like a flame. Sander’s breath hitches. “And spicy,” he adds, opting for cheeky and suave but failing, with Robbe blinking up at him, expectant, his lips already shimmering and smudged.  
  
Head empty, heart pounding, Sander captures them with his and lodges Robbe between his legs. The doorframe digs sharply into his spine, but the pain only spurs him on. His fingers unlatch from the robe to seize the nape of Robbe’s neck and steer him into the kiss, thrusting his tongue like he’d take him, languid and deep. Robbe whimpers and the sparks keep igniting.   
  
He moves his other hand down Robbe’s arching back and around to his front, where the belt is loosely tied, and he lingers, not really on purpose but they’re too entwined to do much about it. Robbe rips his mouth away.

“If you make me wait any longer…”  
  
Sander fucking loves Robbe like this. Riled up, his sensible, timid façade cracking. There was a time when he would have died of shame, and now he’s throwing himself at Sander, demanding to be kissed, to be touched, to be-  
  
With a soft groan, Robbe pushes off him. Sander’s hand hovers at the belt, still. One light pull and the robe would fall open.  
  
“C’mon, do it,” Robbe instructs him, as if Sander needs to be encouraged.  
  
“Bossy.” Sander’s lips twitch and he pulls, and the robe drifts liquorice black along Robbe’s frame.   
  
In a swift glance, Sander absorbs the pendant trickling over Robbe’s clavicles like liquid gold in the morning sun, the scattering of goosebumps on tan, creamy skin, the dusty pink of his nipples, the tension in his abs, the purple crescent marks in the dips of his hips from whenever Sander takes him from behind and the possessive, roaring monster in his chest gets the better of him, the underwear that’s a bit large on him because it’s _Sander_ ’s - and a saner Sander would have spent minutes admiring his muse, committing every detail to memory. But he is crazy for him. He’d crawl, panting, for him, to the end of the Earth.  
  
”You’re so beautiful.” Through the ringing in his ears, he’s not even sure it's anything else than a pile of jumbled words.  
  
“Sander, I’m ready,” Robbe says, his cheeks flushed and pupils blown. “That’s what I did. I’m _ready_. Please, I need you...”  
  
Okay, so Sander isn’t difficult to ask, if Robbe is doing the asking. He can protest and be grumpy about it, but he does what Robbe wants him to do 9 ½ times out of 10. _Sander, I’m hungry. Sander, my feet hurt. Sander, I’m bored. Sander, I’m cold_. _Sander, do that again, but harder, faster_... Sander this and Sander that, and for someone with such an ingrained instinct to be self-reliant after sixteen years by himself, bothering Sander comes surprisingly easy to him. And Sander, growing up as a whirlwind nobody fully relied on, is _here_ for it.  
  
But this is too much for him to handle. The lack of sleep and the alcohol and the remnants of his obsession thrumming in his veins, combined with coming _home_ to find Robbe being so bold, so into him, so heartbreakingly enticing, have him reeling. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to fathom that he is in this position, that he has all this, that in this moment, he is complete.  
  
“Robbe,” is all he can get out through the crackling firework, tears prickling in his eyes. Usually, he is in command, takes charge and manhandles Robbe by the book, and he knows Robbe meant for this to be a fun, quick, passionate fuck before they collapse in bed, exhausted and sated, but he is under water, up in the sky, can’t figure out the next steps. And Robbe is right there, hoping Sander would.   
  
Robbe’s hands are on him and he rubs them up and down his arms, comforting. “My king,” he murmurs. Sander feels infinitely less than, and he laughs, choked.  
  
“You’re a fucking dream,” he whispers. “Any guy would be ecstatic and I’m _crying_.” He wipes at his cheeks, bashful. “Sorry, don’t know what that was.”  
  
“If you’re tired and want to rest, we can do that too. I’m just happy to have you back with me.”  
  
“No, I want you. God, I want you so much.” Sander leans his forehead on Robbe’s to lock their gazes. “So much that I don’t know what to do with myself.”  
  
"You can do whatever you want, Sander. I'm all yours."   
  
"Yes, you are." He fumbles for Robbe’s waist. “Fuck, you’re sexy. Feel that? That’s what you do to me. Want to give it to you so badly. You really got yourself ready for me, baby?”  
  
“I did, yeah.” Robbe doesn’t have the decency to blush, simply smiles and nudges the tip of Sander’s nose, loving. “You’re so handsome, I can’t help it.”   
  
“I’m a disaster.”  
  
“The perfect disaster. We’ll take it slow, okay? You’re a bit stressed-out.”  
  
“No kidding. Didn’t count on being ambushed like this at six am in my own house. Give a poor man a warning, will you? You’re killing me. I don’t-”  
  
Robbe shuts him up with a toe-curling kiss and thankfully, Sander’s busy mind shuts up too. Robbe’s palms reach his shoulders and Sander doesn't have to say it - _hop on._   
  
He picks him up and gracefully, Robbe wraps his legs around him, and Sander holds him tightly, and still dressed, still in his boots, Station to Station still a tinny sound from his phone in the folds of his jacket, he carries Robbe into their bedroom to lay him down and _take it slow_ , the door open and _I love yous_ echoing in every room of the place that they call theirs.

**Author's Note:**

> Love you ❤️


End file.
